White Collar: Curb Appeal
by Ruahnna
Summary: It's been a long day, and the trip home is grindingly slow. Which will give out first—Peter's nerves or Neal's bladder?


**Title:** Curb Appeal

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **Peter and Neal (friendship)

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 1157

**Summary:** It's been a long day, and the trip home is grindingly slow. Which will give out first—Peter's nerves or Neal's bladder?

**A/N:** Written for a Word War to theatregirl7299 's prompt "What about Neal and Peter stuck in traffic?" on October 7, 2013

Peter huffed in frustration and rolled his eyes. "You should have thought about that before we left the gas station. Didn't I say that?"

Neal gave him the gimlet eye which was accompanied by a bilious grimace, but the grimace probably had more to do with the state of his bladder than the state of his liver. "Really? The gas station? When was the last time you dropped trou at one of those places?"

Peter said nothing, which Neal took to mean "It's been a while." Besides, Peter was used to being in charge of his own schedule—within the limits of work—but to Neal, even _those_ limits seemed vast. Neal had spent the last several years of his life with others in control of his schedule. He'd eaten when told, gone to bed when told, worked when told. He positively _refused_ to _pee_ when told, especially in a place that looked like just parking in front of it would give you a communicable disease.

He said none of this to Peter, but Peter might have guessed some of it, for he cast a conciliatory look at his C.I. They'd been on a pretty tight schedule all day. It was hard to blame Neal for not wanting to be told to use the restroom like a six-year-old.

"This will unclog in a minute," Peter said unconvincingly.

"Don't say 'unclog'" Neal groaned.

"It'll clear up in no time," insisted Peter evasively.

Neal looked at him, frankly unbelieving. "Remind me again why they _ever _let you go undercover?" he asked.

"Fine," Peter muttered. "Gripe if you want, but there's no use trying to blame this on me. I told you to go when we fueled up and if you _didn't_, well-"

"I wasn't blaming you," Neal said touchily. He shifted, wishing there was enough leg room in Peter's car to cross his legs. _How did Peter get around in this shoebox without becoming claustrophobic? Speaking of claustrophobic…._

"Can we open the windows?" Neal whined. His expanding bladder was making him feel hemmed in.

"A lot of exhaust out there," Peter said. "Sure you want to let all that in the car?"

Neal slumped, then twisted uncomfortably to the side. "No."

"I can turn the air conditioner up?"

"It smells funny," Neal said. The car still smelled like the Reuben sandwich Peter had had for lunch, or maybe it was the breakfast burrito that lingered.

"Oh, for the love of—I put up an air freshener!" Peter said, exasperated.

"Yeah," Neal said. "Now it smells like a pine forest full of lunch meat."

"Get off my lunch choices," Peter growled. "I don't complain when you eat stinky cheeses!"

"You _so_ do," Neal insisted. In spite of his discomfort, he found his lips twitching into a smile, but he was too indignant to show it. "Speaking of stinky cheeses…." He murmured. "Maybe it _isn't_ lunch meat I'm smelling."

Peter's fingers grew white on the steering wheel. "_Neal!_" There was a warning undertone in Peter's voice that was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

"Nothing."

"Oh yeah?" said Peter. "Well, at least I had enough sense to go before we got _into_ all this traffic. Besides, if you hadn't had to have the _big_ coffee—"

"I _knew_ it. I _knew_ you were going to bring that up! I _offered_ you the big coffee but you _didn't want it_. At least, you _said_ you didn't want it, but I _knew_—"

"Oh _can_ it, Neal."

"I _would_ if I _could_," Neal gritted, and Peter had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He was only moderately successful.

"I've got a soda bottle in the back seat—" Peter began devilishly, but subsided when Neal gave him a poisonous look.

"Yuk it up, big guy," said Neal. "It's your upholstery."

_That_ sobered Peter up, and he glanced nervously at Neal, who seemed to have himself mostly under control except for a twitch in his jaw and an unnaturally upright posture. "At least the traffic is moving," Peter ventured, looking from Neal to the road as they eased forward.

"Yep," said Neal. He was no longer in the mood for conversation. Peter opened his mouth to say something, and there was a sudden opening in the traffic around them. Peter spied the unoccupied curb, snapped the car to the right and practically slid into the edge of the sidewalk. He gestured with his head to the skyscraper beside them, and Neal looked up in not-quite-believing joy. "_Thank_ you, Peter!" Neal said, and scrambled out the door. His jaunty step had been replaced by all-out running, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away. Peter sighed and smiled, shaking his head, then looked back out at the traffic. The spot the Taurus has recently occupied in the traffic grid had disappeared as though it had never been, and it didn't look likely that they'd make it back into the flow anytime soon.

Peter wished he'd brought the book he'd been reading, or some old files from the office. He did not do boredom well, but by the time he'd cleaned out his suit pockets and rearranged the keys on his keyfob, Neal was striding out of the building, hat at a rakish angle, king of the world. Peter's eyes lit up at the sight of him. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm—and two big cups of coffee in his hands.

"Let me guess," Peter said. "I'll bet at least one of those is Italian roast. That means the other one is—"

"Salted caramel mocha," Neal said. It smelled even better than it sounded, and Peter played a little mental eeny-meeny-miney-mo before succumbing to the mocha.

"See—I _knew_ your sweet tooth needed a fix," said Neal. Now that he was no longer desperate for a bathroom, he'd regained some of his usual boundless good humor.

"Apparently it did," said Peter, removing the cap and sipping the scalding liquid.

"You'll burn your tongue," said Neal.

"Probably," said Peter. He closed his eyes in contentment.

"You could blow on—"

"Neal."

"Yes, Peter?"

"How about _this_. I don't tell you when to pee, and you don't tell me how to drink my coffee."

In spite of himself, Neal grinned. "Deal." He looked at Peter's figure slumped in the driver's seat, eyes closed, sipping the hot, sweet liquid. "I guess telling you to start the car would be off limits…?"

"Mmmm," Peter agreed. He jerked his head toward the street, and Neal looked over Peter's shoulder at the traffic. There were rows of hot, loud vehicles practically crawling over each other in their haste, but the traffic was at a virtual standstill in the late afternoon rush.

"Oh," Neal said. "Not going anywhere anytime soon."

"Nope."

"Good thing I brought the crossword," said Neal, brandishing the paper.

Eyes still closed, Peter smiled. "Good man."

_Life certainly wasn't boring with Neal around._

"It was on sale!"

"—then you wouldn't be in this predicament!"

"You mean—stuck in a hot, smelly car in rush hour traffic with

"Are we there yet?" Neal complained, craning his neck for a better view of the parking lot that roadway had become.

_Speaking of six-year-olds_…., Peter thought, but didn't answer Neal.

, and the indignities that go along with having little privacy

Bangalor

Monteray Bay

Panama City


End file.
